


Iron and Flint

by VagrantWriter



Series: Iron and Blood [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Kidnapping, Maledom, Polyamory, Sexism, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5760964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about the women who would have changed Theon Greyjoy's life if their paths had ever crossed.</p><p>In the middle of the night, Theon steals away from Winterfell. And is promptly stolen by a band of raiding wildlings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The King-beyond-the-Wall was much younger than Jon had expected, couldn’t have been much older than himself. He didn’t have the look of a wildling. Though he was dressed in rough furs, Jon could see it in the apprising look he gave him, one man sizing another up for social standing. Jon returned the look, unsure if respect or challenge was expected of him.

The other wildlings watched their standoff. The wind snapped at the tent’s flaps, and outside, the wildling army had blurred into an indistinguishable din.

“So,” the King said, smiling at last. He had a crooked, cocky grin and mischievous grey-blue eyes that glinted in the dim firelight. “You’re the one who killed Qhorin Halfhand? Jon Snow.” He put emphasis on that last word, _Snow_ , in a way that was especially grating, though Jon couldn’t say why. He’d been called worse every day of his life. “Lots of bastards at the Wall, I take it?”

Jon frowned in confusion. Mance Rayder was a defector from the Wall. Surely he’d know there were always enough bastards manning the Watch, from all over the Seven Kingdoms. Snows, Flowerses, Waterses…

“He’s left that behind,” Ygritte spoke up, thankfully keeping Jon from asking questions. “He wants to be one of us.”

“Oh, does he?” The King-beyond-the-Wall stepped closer. He was well-shaven for a wilding. His face was handsome and somehow familiar, though, again, Jon couldn’t say why. “And why does Ned Stark’s bastard want to be one of us? For that matter, what made him leave the comfort of Winterfell’s walls? Too cold for you?”

Jon couldn’t disguise his surprise. “How—?”

“Looking for a place to fit in?” Mance continued. He looked to Ygritte. “What do you think? Is that convincing enough a reason to turn one’s cloak?”

Despite the cold of the tent, Jon could feel himself growing warm. He was wasting the chance Qhorin had paid with his life to give him. He needed to salvage the situation.

He fell to his knee and bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he began, “the Wall is no home to me, nor was Winterfell. Now I wish only to be one of the free folk.”

To his surprise, the King-beyond-the-Wall threw his head back and laughed. The other wildlings joined in, and Jon felt himself growing even warmer.

“Time was,” Mance laughed, “I would have taken you up on your kneeling and fancy titles.”

“As would I, and I never had the luxury of being any sort of lord at all.” A man who had been standing off to the side emerged from the shadows. He was twice the young man’s age, with a haggard face and graying hair. At once, Jon realized his mistake, but when he went to bow before the true King-beyond-the-Wall, the man held up a hand to stop him. “None of that, now. No one here is impressed with your ability to get on your knees.”

“Speak for yourself,” the young man laughed.

Jon’s face burned. “I apologize, Your Gr—I apologize. I was told the King-beyond-the-Wall was a former subject of the Seven Kingdoms.” His eyes flickered to the young man. “You’re no wildling.”

“I’m no kneeler, either,” he said as Jon rose to his feet. “ _I_ know how cold the South can be.”

“Are you truly surprised to find other defectors amongst us?” the real Mance asked.

“It’s not that. He knew I was from Winterfell.” Jon looked closer. The familiarity was just beyond his grasp, no matter how hard he reached. Dark hair, blue-grey eyes, lean-framed. Jon had seen him before. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m hurt.” The young man placed a hand over his heart. “You truly don’t remember your father’s old ward?”

Jon blinked as it all clicked into place. The eyes, the smile. “Theon? Theon Greyjoy?” He took an uncertain step forward. Yes, that was where he knew him from. The two of them had often sparred in the courtyard with Robb, back at Winterfell. A lifetime ago. “But…you’re supposed to be dead.” Who could blame him for not recognizing the boy right away? “You ran away from Winterfell four, five years ago. No one’s heard from you since.”

The young man—Theon Greyjoy, his father’s former ward and hostage—chuckled and shook his head. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“See?” Ygritte raised her hands in vindication. “That’s what _I’ve_ been tellin’im.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was only so much indignity a highborn lord could be expected to take. He was fifteen, for the Gods’ sake, not some brat to be taken over the knee. And yet that’s exactly what Lord Stark had done, in front of Robb and the bastard no less. His ass still stung from the belt strap, and his ears still rang with Lord Stark’s scolding. “Your carelessness could have gotten him killed.”

It had been a harmless round of sparring. Perhaps he’d gotten a bit carried away trying to impress the serving girls. Perhaps he should have used the blunted sword Cassel had provided him with. He hadn’t meant to draw blood. You’d have thought he’d taken the kid’s arm off with the way he wailed.

Robb had watched Theon’s punishment with eyes puffy from crying and glazed with milk of the poppy. Maester Luwen had needed to stitch up the gash. It would scar, but scars happened. Theon had similar scars from his days with his brothers, his real brothers. There was no need for such punishment. But Gods forbid precious little Robb Stark come to any harm.

Theon waited until the dead of night to sneak out, a bundle of only the most necessary items slung over his shoulder: a loaf of bread, a handful of coins to buy a boat to the Iron Islands, and his finest clothes for when he stood before his father once again. His gold kraken brocade he wore as a clasp on his doublet; he carried his bow and arrow on his back. He deliberated on whether to take his horse or not, but then decided he’d be less easy to track on foot, especially if he could throw off his trail by following creeks and streams. He stole out into the forest and followed the stars to the west.

Three days later, he’d run out of bread and seemed nowhere near the coast. By this point, he was looking for a village, a farm, anywhere that might have food and a warm bed to sleep in. But there was no one. Just woods stretching forever and ever and ever. He was able to shoot a deer, but then realized he’d brought nothing to cut and clean it with. He shot a rabbit and cooked it over a meager fire, fur and all, and that way managed to get a bit of food in his belly. It wasn’t enough. On the fifth day of his escape, he collapsed.

He woke to a fist in his hair yanking his head back and a knife to his throat. “There’s a nice little lordling,” an uncultured voice hissed in his ear. “No screamin’ now.”

Theon blinked blearily to clear the glaze from his eyes. Besides whoever was holding him, there were two other ratty characters sifting through his bundle.

“Unhand that,” Theon demanded. Then to his captor, “Unhand _me_.”

“Watch your mouth.” The knife dug into his neck. “Unless you want me to make you a new one.”

“He got anything useful on him?” a new voice asked, and a fourth figure appeared. He had flaming red hair, a shade brighter than any Stark could boast.

“Nothin’,” one of the other figures muttered, revealing itself to be a woman. It was difficult to tell from looking, what with all the tangled hair. She pulled Theon’s spare set of clothes from the pack and dropped them on the ground with a disgusted grunt.

“Hey!” Theon struggled against his captor’s grasp. “Be careful with those. Those are likely the finest clothes someone like _you_ will ever even touch.”

“Finest?” The woman wrinkled her nose at him. “I’d freeze t’death in them skimpy things.”

“Nothin’ of value, eh?” the redheaded man said contemplatively. “I suppose I’ll just be taking this lovely little bow, then. My Ygritte’s been begging me for a new one.”

“Fuck you, you can’t have my bow!”

“What should we do with _him_?” the captor asked. “Kill ‘im?”

Theon felt his blood turn to ice, just as it did whenever Lord Stark would draw his greatsword. He knew that if Lord Stark ever leveled Ice at him, there would be no amount of pleading, bargaining, or threatening to spare his life. But Lord Stark was a man of his word, and not easily intimidated at that. These were simple smallfolk. He would appeal to them as such. “I am Theon Greyjoy," he said and almost but didn’t quite keep his voice from shaking. "Lord of the Iron Islands, and there are powerful men who will avenge me.”

“Lord of what?”

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“ _But_ ,” Theon continued, “if you release me, you’ll be rewarded handsomely. There’s gold in my pack. Take it, it’s yours. You’ll have more once I am returned to Pyke.”

“Gold?” the woman scoffed. “What use have we for gold?”

“Too soft to make weapons,” her companion agreed.

Theon couldn’t believe his ears. The gold in his pack was enough to buy these ruffians food for months. He had clearly overestimated their intelligence. “My father can give you weapons, if you prefer,” he blurted out. “What do you want? Land? Ships? Women?” He eyed the woman skeptically. “Men?” he guessed for her. “Whatever it is, name it.”

“Ships?” the redhead asked. “Like…fancy boats?”

“My father has a whole armada he would trade for my safe return.”

“Oh, an armada.” The woman’s face lit up. “That sounds like a real fancy one. Let’s have one of those, Frang.”

The redhead, Frang, looked Theon straight in the eyes. “You’ll really give us one them big boats if we don’t kill you?”

“One, one hundred, however many you want.”

The ruffians conversed amongst themselves for several minutes until the man holding the knife finally let up on the blade. “Alright, lad, looks like you’ll live another day.” He hauled Theon to his feet, and Theon got his first look at the hulking man. He was so big that he easily hefted Theon over his shoulder like a half-filled sack.

“What?” For a second, Theon was too stunned to react. “No, I’m not going _with_ you. You’re _taking_ me to the Iron Islands.”

“Don’t know where that is,” Frang said. “You’re going to use that fancy writing-on-paper of yours to tell your father to bring our boat here, to us. If he shows up, we’ll let you go. If not…”

“He’ll do it,” Theon protested. “My father would never let any harm come to me.”

 

***

 

Turned out Theon had been heading in the right direction to reach the ocean, just not the right direction to reach the Iron Islands. As they left the trees, he was utterly shocked to see the shape of the Wall in the distance. He had never seen it before, of course, but it was unmistakable. It dominated the horizon. It stretched forever to the east, and to the west lay the vast expanse of the ocean.

He hadn’t felt a salty sea breeze on his skin since he was a child, and he might have taken the time to relish if it he weren’t in terror of his life. Death at Winterfell had always been his constant companion, in an abstract sense. With these ruffians, it was decidedly more imminent. Though perhaps it was all the same in the end. Theon’s fate still depended on something his father would or would not do.

They brought him to a hovel he assumed was theirs until he saw the bodies of the old man and woman in the bed, murdered in their sleep. His captors were reavers, then. He should have guessed. They sat him down at the table, where the hulking man stood over him, watching for any attempt at an escape. Frang helped himself to the chair at the head of the table, as if he were a lord of a castle, while the other two carelessly tore through the old couples’ stores.

“You know,” Theon began conversationally, “my people are reavers too.”

Frang looked him up and down as if he very much doubted that.

“It’s true. The Ironborn take what they want, _when_ they want. My family’s words are, ‘We do not sow.’”

“You sew pretty clothing,” the woman offered derisively.

Theon ignored her. “They would welcome you. You’d travel the globe, pillaging and taking whatever you want. They’d sing songs of your exploits.”

“I have no interest in kneelin’ for some lord in fancy clothing,” the hulking man muttered over Theon’s shoulder.

“My father—”

“If my Ygritte expected me to fight her battles, I’d be ashamed to have whelped such a coward.” Frang leaned forward in his chair. “Does your father know you’re a coward?”

Theon’s face burned. “I am not a coward.”

“Oh no? So you haven’t been whimpering like a newborn babe ever since we picked you up?”

Theon thought he’d been remarkably brave throughout this ordeal. Hells, he’d been brave in the face of uncertain death for years. Was it too much to ask for a little recognition of the fact? Perfect little Robb Stark would have fallen to pieces if he were in Theon’s place. He was strong. He was Ironborn. And he was done being anyone’s hostage.

He stood. The woman reached for her axe, but a look from Frang had her lowering it. It infuriated Theon that they weren’t taking this seriously.

“Fuck you,” he spat. “I’ll tell you what my father will really give you when he gets here. A slow death. He’ll bury you up to your necks in the sand and wait for the tide to come in. Because the Ironborn don’t negotiate for anything. We are not servants. We are not slaves. We take what is ours. And if you didn’t have me outnumbered right now, I’d show you what an Ironborn’s worth. I’m not the coward. _You_ are.”

Silence held everything still for several moments.

Then Frang burst out laughing.

“I don’t doubt that you would kill me, if you could. But you see the problem, boy. Even if you got free, you’d still be a slave. You southerners, you…kneelers, the whole lot of you crave subjugation, like beaten dogs. You just don’t know it.”

Theon curled his hands into fists.

“Tell ya what. Fuck the boat. We’ll take you back with us, to the true North. I’ve been looking for something for Ygritte. A pampered little southern lord would be mighty entertaining.”

Theon stood, but the hulking man shoved him back onto the bench. “I won’t go with you.”

“And you think we have any trouble taking you where we want?” Frang grinned toothily. “You’re welcome to try, of course. I’m curious to see what an ‘Ironborn’ is really worth.”

 

***

 

They took a boat around the Wall, if you could really call it a boat. A raft, more like. No wonder they’d been impressed at the prospect of a ship. The Wall was truly an awesome thing to behold, but like the ocean, Theon found himself unable to really appreciate it. They passed around the watchtower, cloaked in a thick fog. Theon couldn’t even tell if there was anyone he could call out to for help.

When they reached the other side, they bound Theon’s hands behind his back and made him wade through the freezing shallow water to shore. The terrain was rough and uneven, and Theon kept tripping without the use of his arms for balance. When he protested this treatment, they shoved an old rag in his mouth. Several times, Theon simply refused to keep walking. Nobody paid him any mind and kept going, leaving him bound and helpless in a vast expanse of rock and snow and little else. He was forced to jog to keep up with them.

They traveled like this for days, camping at night in old caves. The North beyond the Wall was nothing but a plain of frozen dirt and rock. It was unutterably dark at night. And cold. He had never been so cold during the summer. The Wall disappeared from sight on the second day of travel, and by the third, Theon wasn’t sure he’d even be able to find it again.

On the fourth night, the savages formed a camp in the maw of a cave and started a fire. As they sat down for a meal of their ill-gotten food, Frang cut Theon loose and tossed him his bow and a single arrow. “I didn’t bring you to burden us,” he said. “If you want to stay alive from now you, you’ll need to get your own food.”

Theon held the bow in his hands, contemplating it, before nocking the arrow and aiming at the redhead. “I could kill you.”

Frang looked unimpressed. “You’ve one arrow. The minute you loose it, the other three of us will be on you. Stupid way t’die.”

Theon’s hands trembled. “I could run, while I’m out.”

Frang scratched his beard. “Could. Though if you can find your way back without starving or freezing, you deserve your freedom.”

Defeated by savage logic, Theon trudged out into the snow. He had one arrow and no idea where he was. He’d seen no sign of civilization since they’d passed the Wall, if there even was civilization out here. Theon very much doubted it. He had a vague idea of where the Wall and the ocean were, but he’d never make it there with the supplies he had on him.

A snow hare was foraging nearby, sniffing around in the permafrost for some bit of green. Theon nocked his arrow and aimed, steady as a man made of stone. The wildlings wanted to show him how they lived? Fine, he’d watch and he’d learn and he’d wait. He’d let them show him their strengths and weaknesses, and then he’d use it against them. It would take time, but he could be patient. _I’ll show you, barbarians_ , he thought. _I escaped from the Starks and I’ll escape from you. The only difference is that now you’re the ones who are going to_ teach _me how to escape._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wildling culture in general really straddles the dubcon line, but if anyone feels like it goes over that line into true noncon territory, be sure to let me know and I'll tag it appropriately.

“Da!” Ygritte ran across the field to meet the returning party and launched herself as her father, who picked her up and swung her off her feet, even though she was far too old for such things. “How was your trip?”

“I brought you something.” He set her down and unstrapped something from his back.

Ygritte’s eyes widened as she took it. “Oh, that’s a lovely bow.” A bit large for her, perhaps, but well-polished and smooth. She normally wouldn’t have given a second thought to who her father had taken it off of, but then she glanced up at the stranger amongst the group’s midst. She took in his sullen expression, his leather doublet, the pretty cut of his hair. A southerner if she’d ever seen one. “Who’s he?”

“He’s our new house thrall,” he fathered answered with a knowing grin. “I stole him for you.”

Ygritte studied their new thrall. They’d never had need of one before, and the boy’s soft skin didn’t speak of someone who knew how to tend sheep or whatever else a thrall did. But…he had soft skin. And he was pretty, and suddenly Ygritte knew why he was here.

It was because she’d started bleeding last year and had been expressing an interest in the boys who snooped around. Her poor father! He didn’t like the thought of his daughter leaving, didn’t want to let her go yet, so he’d stolen this pretty “house thrall” to appease her curiosity and also keep her home for another year. Or however long it took her to grow bored with him. And she could tell that she would grow tired of him. She wanted someone who was strong, who would at least look her in the eye. Still, she appreciated the gift nonetheless.

“Thank you, Da.”

 

***

 

It turned out the boy was only good for a handful of tasks—tending the fire, plucking feathers, watching a pot boil. He did his duties with obvious disdain, his back always to the fire and his eyes always on her, her mother, or her father. He was looking for a way to escape, and Ygritte appreciated that. There was a saying she’d heard: A man can have a sharp knife or an unhappy wife, but not both.

He hadn’t said a thing in over a week, and she was beginning to suspect he was mute until the day she was out practicing with her new bow. She hadn’t even realized he’d come out to chop more wood for the fire until she heard a voice mutter, “You’re holding it wrong, you damned savage.” She whirled to find him leaning on the sheep pen, axe swung over his shoulder.

“I know how t’shoot it,” she said. “I’ve been shootin’ since I was six years old.”

He scrunched up his brow. “You’re still holding it wrong.”

She huffed in disdain. “Let’s see you do better then, _yer lordship_.” She gave a curtsey, or what she imagined a curtsey would look like.

He smiled at her, lopsided and cocky, and for some reason it made warmth stir in her stomach. In one smooth motion, he leapt over the fence and came to join her. She relinquished her hold on the bow and he took it from her. Their hands brushed. His palms were warm and smooth.

“Your hands are too tiny,” he said. “No wonder you can’t hold it right. Weapons aren’t made for little girls.” He held the bow and tested the string. “You should be tending the fire and all that. Leave the women’s work to the women.”

“Tend the fire?” she asked incredulously. “Is that all women do where you’re from?” She couldn’t imagine such a useless creature.

“Only servants,” he continued. “Noblewomen don’t dirty their hands. Noblemen, for that matter.”

“Noble? You’re talking about the people you all kneel to?”

“Well, not me. I _am_ one of those people. If we were on the Iron Islands, _you’d_ be the one tending _my_ fire. I’d have you kneel to me then, like a good little whore.”

“A what?”

He grinned wickedly. “You seriously don’t know what a whore is? Are you _that_ sheltered? Whores are women you fuck.”

Ygritte furrowed her brow in confusion. “Are there women you _don’t_ fuck, then?”

That made the smile falter from his face. “I don’t think you understand. Whores are women who sell their cunts for money.”

“To you?”

“Well…yes.”

“Why would they do that? Do they feel sorry for you?”

He scowled. “No, you don’t understand.”

She shrugged. “I s’ppose not. Can I have my bow back now?”

His hand tightened on the bow. “No, you can’t. It’s my bow. It was made special for me. That’s why your woman hands can’t hold it properly.”

She sighed in annoyance. “I took it fair. It’s mine now.”

“No, your _father_ took it. You—”

She punched him in the face. He went reeling backwards, and when he cupped his nose to stem the bleeding, she snatched the bow, nocked one of her arrows, and pointed it in his face. “So I _retook_ it,” she said. “It’s my by rights now. You say I can’t hold it properly, but do you want to test my shooting at this range?”

He held up his hands, but his eyes held no surrender. She liked that.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Theon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands.”

“I’m not going to call you all that, yer lordship.”

He turned and spit a wad of blood onto the ground. “Lord Theon, then.”

She wasn’t about to call him Lord Anything. “Theon, then,” she decided. “You can call me Ygritte.”

 

***

 

Theon had been with them for about a month when Morna came snooping around. She was a slightly older girl with a pretty face and a full figure. She leaned against the sheep pen, watching Theon cut wood for the fire.

“I’m going to steal your thrall,” she announced one day.

“You’re not s’ppose t’warn someone about that sort of thing,” Ygritte pointed out.

“So…you don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?”

That night, Morna waylaid Theon on his way out to the woodpile. Ygritte followed in secret as she dragged him into the thicket. Mostly he seemed too confused to fight back, and Morna had an easy time pushing him to the ground. He sputtered when she climbed on top of him and began fumbling under his furs.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve stolen you,” Morna announced breathlessly. “Now I’m claiming what’s mine.”

“I’m not some salt wife!”

She found what she was looking for, and Theon bucked into her hand. A low moan escaped his throat. Ygritte stood hidden behind a tree and pressed her legs together. She hoped Morna would make him make that sound again.

“Seven hells,” he breathed. “Are all the girls up here fucking insane?” He was no longer trying to push her off, but now rested his hands on her hips.

She hiked up her own furs. His eyes glinted as he ran his hands over her exposed skin. Ygritte wondered what his smooth palms would feel like on her.

Morna bent down and he leaned up, and they met to kiss. “I don’t.” Kiss. “I’ve only ever.” Kiss. “Been with—”

“Be quiet and let me claim you, then.”

In the darkness, Ygritte could only make out their shapes as Morna lowered herself onto him. The sound they made was unlike anything she’d heard before. She ran from the scene and spent the rest of the night in bed, trying to ignore the burning between her legs.

 

***

 

From that day on, Theon became a favorite for the girls to steal, though Ygritte couldn’t see how it was any fun when he wouldn’t even put up a show of resistance. In fact, he encouraged it, winking and smiling at them. He could easily have approached them himself, but he seemed to _like_ being stolen.

And it wasn’t _real_ stealing anyway, not when he came home afterwards, exhausted and smelling of sex. And always with that cocky grin on his face. It infuriated her that he would play at being one of the free folk. He wasn’t. He was a soft little lordling, a kneeler. She began to wish her father had never brought him home.

She knew he wondered why she hadn’t already “stolen” him herself. The truth was, she didn’t like him, the way he smiled and winked at her, as if inviting her to steal him. He made fun of her for not understanding anything, but _he_ was the one who didn’t understand. “No one wants a man who _allows_ himself to get stolen,” she told him as he sat plucking a chicken by the fire.

He grinned at her. “There seem to be plenty of girls who want me.”

“You don’t get it. It’s a game t’them. When they’re done, they want a man who _does_ the stealing. Or at least who’s strong enough not to be carried away by every girl he sees.”

He cocked his head, contemplating that. “You want me to steal you?”

She sputtered. “If you tried, I’d cut your pretty face.”

He smiled. “What sort of man _do_ you want, Ygritte?”

“I want a warrior,” she said, “not a servant. Not someone who’s going to kneel to me so willingly, like I’m some Southern lordling.”

“Lady,” he corrected. “Men are lords, women are ladies.”

“I want a free man!” she burst out.

He paused in his task, a handful of feathers in his hand. The fire glinted off his blue eyes. If she was kissed by fire, then he was kissed by the sea. “I’ll be a free man soon enough.” His voice was low and dangerous. She felt the familiar and bothersome heat building in her stomach. “And when I am, I’m not sticking around this shit hole. You’ll have to find some other free man to steal you, princess.”

After that conversation, she began to notice it more and more. The way he would squirrel away bits of food, in portions too small for anyone to notice. The way he managed to sneak one of the hunting knives under the pile of straw where he slept. He thought he was being sneaky and clever. She wondered if he meant to kill them all and kept her guard up around him. But at the same time she was curious to see what he would do and allowed him to continue whatever idiot plan he had.

She knew the exact day he intended to flee, because that was the day he tried to get his bow back. It was the dead of night. Her parents were snoring loudly in the bed across the room, and Theon was stirring loudly from his straw pile. She could have laughed at his pitiful attempt. He had no patience, no lightness of foot. He fancied himself a hunter, but he was no such thing.

She kept the bow on the wall by her bed, so she was able to watch as he crept around her, brow furrowed in concentration. She wished now that she hadn’t followed Morna that night, because she couldn’t help but wonder what his face would look like in the throes of pleasure. Would he wear that same look of concentration and determination? Or would his face become slack? Would he smile at her?

She gritted her teeth to keep these thoughts from her head and focused on him now. She allowed him to take the bow and quiver and watched as he made his way towards the door on clumsy feet. She allowed him a few seconds before she threw back the covers and went after him.

He was trying to steal one of her neighbor’s horses, but the creature was not putting up with him. He managed to get himself astride, only to swiftly slip off. That was what broke Ygritte’s silence. Her laughter cut across the yard, and Theon froze in his attempt to get to his feet. He really hadn’t expected anyone to notice his laughable escape attempt! That made her laugh even harder.

His face contorted in the sort of impotent anger she had come to expect from him. But this time, instead of turning away or muttering some cutting remark under his breath, he dropped his pack of pitiful supplies and marched towards her. She laughed harder still. Was he trying to intimidate her? She’d love to see what his stolen, blunted hunting knife could do against her newly sharpened one, which she had strapped to her waist under her belt.

“Don’t try to stop me,” he hissed.

“As if I’d have to try too hard.”

He snarled and darted forward faster than she’d expected. His hands wrapped around her wrists. He was stronger than she had given him credit for, because he held her tightly. “You’re always mocking me.”

“And _you’re_ always mocking _me_ ,” she argued back. She made an attempt to break his hold, but his grip became bruisingly tight.

“I could kill you, you know.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don’t think I wouldn’t?” He pushed her up against the barn wall. Her head snapped against the rough grain of the wood, and she saw stars. “I would love nothing more than to give you a lesson in respect, _whore_. You want me to ‘steal’ you so badly? Fine.”

With one hand he began tearing at her furs. The other held her left wrist pinned, but her right hand was free to reach for her knife. She never even contemplated it.

She couldn’t hold back a moan as his smooth fingers brushed over her bare stomach.

He froze, eyes wide like a frightened rabbit. His hand slipped along her waist, earning another throaty moan, until his fingers came in contact with the knife at her side. “You…like this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice bewildered.

She bucked her hips against his hand. “Did you like it when Morna did it to you?”

“I wouldn’t…I was just trying to scare you, you know.”

“Do I _look_ scared?”

He looked so uncertain for a moment. “Do you…actually want this?”

“Be quiet and _claim_ me already, Lord Theon.”


	4. Chapter 4

Theon knew he could no longer call himself a proper Ironborn. Not when he’d thrown away his chance at freedom for a wet cunt. He’d been planning his escape for almost a month, and yet the wanton moans of some wildling whore were all it took to make him lose sight of everything. He could be back home by now, on Pyke, with his own people. Instead he was still in this Gods forsaken wasteland.

After that night, Ygritte’s father smiled knowingly at him from across the table, which confused Theon more than anything. Was he congratulating Theon for taking his daughter’s maidenhead? Did he expect them to be married now? He made no mention of it. In fact, the wildlings didn’t seem to mind that he’d stuck his dick in half a dozen girls. One of the girls he’d bedded even began to grow large with child, which made him feel guiltier than he’d imagined. But when he approached her, she assured him that he probably wasn’t the father, but rather the babe belonged to another boy she’d been sleeping with. With not an ounce of shame in her voice. The lot of them were insane. Insane, wanton sluts.

To prove this point, one morning, Ygritte stopped him when he went to tend his usual duties. She had his bow in her hands. “You really know how to use this?” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Just ask your father,” he said. “He’s seen me shoot a snow hare through the head.”

“Through the head?” She pursed her lips, looking unimpressed. “How about between the eyes?”

“I could do that.”

“Then come hunting with me today.”

They went out together. A light snow had fallen during the night, and their feet crunched as they walked through the forest. She was much lighter on her feet than him, but then again, she was also much smaller. He’d been surprised when she’d told him she was only a year younger than him. She had untamed red hair, like her father, with a flat face and a little pug nose. She was no great beauty, but she had a charm to her. And the hair between her legs was as fiery red as it was on her head.

She had her own little bow, made from a rough piece of wood. No wonder she’d wanted a new one. This one she carried was an absolute piece of shit.

They found a deer eating bark off a tree, a decent-sized doe. Ygritte gave him one of her arrows. He didn’t even consider shooting her. Killing her would do him no good, and would probably cement a brutal retribution from her family. Instead, he nocked the arrow, took aim, and let loose. The arrow sailed across the clearing and landed in the deer’s leg. The deer took off in a limping run, and Ygritte shook her head in disgust.

“I thought you said you could use that thing.”

“It’s your damned arrows,” he said. “They’re crooked. And fletched all wrong.”

She rolled her eyes and knocked an arrow of her own. She sent it flying through the air. It hit the fleeing deer in the base of the neck, forcing the flint tip of the arrowhead up into its brain. It collapsed, dead. She turned to him with a cocky smile. She had a small gap between her front teeth that would be uncomely on any other girl but was rather charming on her.

“I could do that,” he argued. He needed to salvage the scraps of his masculinity. “If I had the proper arrows.”

“Arrows someone else makes for you?”

“That’s what blacksmiths are for.”

She frowned, that way she did when she clearly didn’t understand what he was talking about. “Metal forgers, you mean? You make arrows out of metal?”

“The heads, yes.”

“Well, you must shoot true, then, if you want to get the metal back.”

“I mean…I hate losing an arrow.” For pride reasons. “But it’s no great loss.”

“You don’t mind losing metal like that? I thought you worshipped iron.”

“I don’t…” He paused, not even sure how to respond to that. “I worship the Drowned God, not iron. We’re called Ironborn because we’re hard, like iron. Not because…” He had noticed there wasn’t an abundance of iron, or any other metal for that matter, around here. Bronze was the most common. “Not because it’s precious to us.”

She cocked her head. “The Drowned God? I’ve never heard of that one. Is he an Old God?”

“An old god, for sure, but not one of _your_ Old Gods.” Theon had seen the weirwood trees as well. They were common up here. The heart tree at Winterfell had always been vaguely unnerving to him, like it was watching him with its bloody face. “Trees don’t even grow on the Iron Islands. The Drowned God lives in his Great Hall under the sea. The Ironborn go there to join him after they die, if they die a noble death. Drowning is preferred.”

“Is that why you’re such a coward?” she asked. “Because you don’t want to risk dying so far from the sea? You’d rather drown?”

“I’m not a coward. I’m still planning to escape. I’m just…patient.”

“But you’re afraid to die.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Everyone dies,” she shrugged. “But I’d rather die free than live a slave.”

He grabbed her shoulders. She lowered her bow and looked up at him with her gray eyes. “I am no one’s slave,” he said. “I’m staying because I’m biding my time. You ruined my chance at escape with your stupid…” He growled and kissed her roughly on the mouth. He wanted to claim her, to dominate her like he had that night. He wanted to make her writhe and moan and know that he owned her.

She kissed back just as fiercely and allowed him to push her to the ground. He tore at her furs and she tore at his. They fucked roughly there in the forest and left bruises on each other’s bodies. Theon was sore afterwards, and she seemed just as bad. They were stiff in getting their clothes back on and carrying the deer between them back to the one-room hovel her family called a house.

After that, they were stealing into the forest whenever they got the chance. Their trysts always began with wrestling. Sometimes he would win, sometimes she would, but it always ended in frantic fucking that left them both breathless and exhausted. Whoever had won the right to be one top would lie on the other while they regained their breaths. Theon liked having her on top, though he would never admit it to her. He liked when she would lay her head on his shoulder and let her red hair fan out across his chest.

“Does your father expect us to marry?” he asked one day, running his hands through her hair. It was wild and tangled, and his fingers didn’t move through it easily. He didn’t care. It felt warm in his hands, almost like real fire. That was probably his imagination, though.

“What’s my father got to do with it?” she asked back.

“Your father doesn’t care that I’m fucking his little girl?”

“Why would he?”

They had no concept of ruining a woman. Fine, less trouble for him.

“What if you get pregnant?”

“What of it?”

“Would you want to marry me then?”

She shrugged against him. “If the babe survived, I s’ppose. Not sure you’re entirely suited to be a husband, though.”

He sat up, knocking her off him. “Why not?”

“You’re like a babe yourself. You don’t understand anything and you can’t take care of yourself.”

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

“You can’t even shoot an arrow straight.”

He gritted his teeth and stood up, hitching up his smallclothes and furs. “Your father still has some of my original arrows. Give me one of them and I’ll show you how straight I can shoot.”

She smiled bemusedly at him. He hated when she smiled with closed lips. He liked seeing her little gap.

She dressed and came back several minutes later with his bow and the few proper arrows he’d had on him when he’d been taken. He took both from her and pointed to a starling on a branch far above them. “Watch,” he instructed. He pulled the string taught, held, released. The starling came crashing down to earth.

Ygritte’s mouth fell open. “Such a tiny thing to risk losing a nice arrow on.”

Theon bent and retrieved his arrow. “Not such a great risk. You can shoot farther and straighter with a straight arrow.”

She reached out for the arrow and he let her take it. She turned it over and over in her hands. “Do you know how to make these?” she asked.

“Well, I…no.”

Her face suddenly lit up. “I know where we can get more of these for you. We get them off the crows sometimes. Mostly we melt the heads down for more important things, but I can see if we can spare them for you when the next batch of crows arrives.”

“Crows?”

“The men in black.”

“Oh, from the Watch.” That was something Theon had not contemplated before, mostly because he hadn’t seen any Night’s Watchmen since he’d been here. But if one of them were to see him and recognize him as the lord he was, they would be eager to take him back beyond the Wall, perhaps even send him on his way to Pyke. Yes, the solution was simple. “You’ll let me know when the next batch of crows arrives, won’t you?”

 

***

 

“Theon. Psst. Theon. Wake up, _yer lordship_.”

Theon groaned and opened his eyes. He’d just gotten to sleep. Didn’t Ygritte appreciate how hard it was to sleep on a pile of straw? Probably not. He’d felt her mattress and found it was stuffed with the thinnest possible layer of straw. How was it that the wildlings hadn’t all succumbed to terrible backaches by now?

“There are crows nearby,” she said, prodding him again with the butt of a spear. “They sent out a scout. We’re going to take ‘im by surprise while he’s all by his lonesome.”

Theon sat up at that. “Just one?” He’d been hoping for a full party.

“Just one lone crow,” she said, smiling a full-toothed smile. She tossed his bow at him. “Come on.”

Theon dressed hurriedly, slipping his wildling furs on over the leather doublet he’d been captured in. He’d been allowed to keep his golden kraken brocade since it had been deemed worthless, and he pinned it to his collar now. Dressed thusly, he would be able to reveal his true identity to the ranger, while Ygritte remained none the wiser when he came to join her outside. She smiled at him and cocked her head for him to follow.

They found the ranger sleeping in the pathetic shelter of a hollowed out tree. He’d made no fire for himself, and dressed all in black, he was difficult to see. Still, they could make out the occasional snorting of his horse, and when the moon came out from behind the clouds, Theon could see the man’s silhouette, breath coming out in steamy puffs.

“Better let me shoot,” Ygritte said. “Here, hold this.” She handed him her spear, and he handed her his arrows. Now was his chance.

As she nocked and drew the string taut, Theon brought the butt of the spear careening into the back of her head. She let out a startled squawk as she fell forward onto her hands and knees, but just in case, Theon screamed, “Oi! Wake up!” The man startled awake and grabbed for the sword at his side.

Ygritte clawed for her dropped bow and arrow, but Theon kicked it out of the way and grabbed her by the hair. She screamed in rage and lashed out against him. She was strong, but he held tight as the ranger approached.

“Don’t nobody fuckin’ move,” the ranger demanded.

“Put down your weapon,” Theon said in return. “I am Theon of House Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands. I was captured by wildlings three months ago on my return journey to Pyke. I will thank you to escort me back to civilization.”

He couldn’t see much in the darkness, but the man seemed to be eying him up and down.

“Here’s your proof.” Theon reached into his furs, undid the brocade, and tossed it to the man. “That is the sigil of my house. You’re welcomed to keep if it you will escort me back.”

Ygritte redoubled her efforts to throw him off, and he had to pin her to the ground with a knee to the back. She never stopped hissing or spitting, apparently too overtaken with rage to even articulate a thing. It was her own fault, really. She shouldn’t have let her guard down around him.

The ranger turned the brocade over and over in his hands. “Theon Greyjoy,” he said at last. “Not that cunt what bends his knees to the Greenlanders?”

Theon balked at that. “Mind who you’re speaking to.”

The other grunted. “I’m from the Iron Islands myself, originally. I remember when they’s took the young prince. Soft boy. Lord Greyjoy wrote ‘im off for dead or worse. Anyone what remembers ‘im now knows ‘e serve Ned Stark on ‘is knees. And you say you’re ‘im?”

“I am your lord,” Theon said bitingly.

“Not no more. Was caught on a raid, sent to spend the rest of my life on the Wall. Never thought I’d see a more barren place than Pyke. Haven’t even seen a woman in years.” He turned his head to Ygritte. “You let me have a go at your friend and sure, I’ll take you back to the Wall.”

Ygritte howled like a bobcat, but she couldn’t throw him off.

“No,” Theon said. “We don’t have time for that. I want to get back right away.”

The ranger was already undoing his belt, though. “I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t touch me, crow!” Ygritte yowled.

“I said no,” Theon repeated. He didn’t know why he was being so adamant about it. Ygritte had been his captor for three months; he didn’t owe her anything. If the man wanted a quick fuck in return for taking him back to the Wall, that seemed the simplest thing. Hells, Ygritte might even enjoy the fight of it. But for some reason, when the man took his cock out, all Theon could see what a red haze. He stood, one boot still on Ygritte’s back and spear aimed at the man’s face to stop his advance. “Take me back to the Wall _now_ or I’ll run you through.”

The man’s jaw opened in irritated surprise. “You really going to defend that whore to the death? She your wife or something?”

“I’m not defending her,” Theon growled. “I just don’t reward insolence. I’m well within my rights to take your head, but if you take me back now, I’ll spare your worthless life.”

The ranger spat at him. “Think I can’t smell cunt on your breath? Better than sucking cock, I suppose. You call yourself an Ironborn?” He took a step forward. “You say you’re Theon Greyjoy? If I ever get back to the Iron Islands, your father will thank me for ramming my sword up your arse. And when I’m done with you, I’ll fuck her on top of your corpse and then I’ll—”

And really, Theon didn’t need him at all. He stepped forward to meet him. The spear went in and out of his neck as if the ranger’s skin were made of soft leather. Theon couldn’t see the blood against all the black, but he could smell it. And he could hear it as the man gurgled and fell to his knees and then dropped dead. He also heard the twang of a bowstring and felt the flint of an arrowhead at the base of his skull.

Ygritte had scrambled to her feet and armed herself in the time it had taken to dispatch the man. She paid the dead body no heed. “You coward,” she hissed.

“I wasn’t going to let him hurt you,” Theon protested.

“You’re _leaving_ me,” she said. “You’ve been _planning_ this.”

“Why are you surprised? I told you so, didn’t I?” Theon threw the spear on the ground and began towards the dead ranger’s horse.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” She didn’t let the arrow go, though.

Theon untied the horse’s reins from the tree branch it had been laced through and turned to her. “You call yourselves the free folk, don’t you? Then you understand why I want to be free too.”

“You’ll never be free if you go back,” she said.

He mounted up on the horse, and still she didn’t loose the arrow.

“You were supposed to steal me,” she said, “for real. You were supposed to take me off somewhere, and we were going to be free together. But you didn’t. Why didn’t you? Why are you such a bloody coward?”

“Goodbye, Ygritte.” He turned the horse around and rode off. She never took the shot.


	5. Chapter 5

He rode until he came upon the scouting ranger’s troop, when the sun was just beginning to turn the sky pink in the east. Even if he hadn’t found them, the dead man’s packs had enough supplies to last days, perhaps even weeks. He would have been able to make it to the Wall himself, presuming he was riding in the right direction.

He stopped and dismounted to take off his furs. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a wildling and shot before he even came within range. Nobody shot him, but they did put up their swords as he drew near. “Who are you and why are you riding Ogen’s horse?”

“A dead man has little need of a horse.” Theon dismounted. “I am Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Your man attacked me and I was forced to defend myself.”

The head ranger, a grizzled old man, narrowed his eyes. “Aye, did he now? And what was an Iron Islander such as yourself doing this far north?”

“I was captured by wildlings on my journey to Pyke. They’ve been holding me captive for three months. My father, Balon Greyjoy, will pay you handsomely for my safe return.”

“He certainly doesn’t talk like a wildling,” one of the other men offered. “And everyone knows Ogen was a right cunt. I’m inclined to believe him.”

“Very well,” the head ranger said. “We’ll escort you back to Castle Black and send a raven to Pyke, see if we can verify your claim. If no one claims you, you may find yourself filling Ogen’s position. The Wall is short of men as it is. Justified or not, Ogen’s death will not be seen as a blessing.”

 

***

 

He had forgotten that Benjen Stark was at the Wall. Theon spent most of his time lying low, lest the First Ranger learn the Starks’ hostage needed returning to Winterfell. He made no mention of his name or title to anyone but the rangers who’d escorted him back and told them he did not wish to make himself known. They thought this odd. It certainly didn’t help his credibility.

Castle Black’s maester sent a raven to Pyke, and three days later, a raven returned:

_My legitimate sons are dead. You must have some bastard I got off a whore or, worse, an imposter. Keep him. –Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands_

Theon was shocked and more than a little hurt. Did his father truly believe him dead, or was it has Ogen had said? Did the entirety of the Iron Islands see him as a traitor to the Greenlanders? Did they think he was Ned Stark’s whore? His father couldn’t do this to him. He was his last living son and heir. But Theon didn’t know who to appeal to or who would believe him. Certainly nobody he _wanted_ knowing.

“Guess you’ll be joining the Night’s Watch after all,” said the grizzled old ranger who’d found him. It wasn’t a question. His only alternative was to be put to the sword for impersonating a noble, and possibly for killing a Night’s Watchman if it was deemed unjustified. “Yorhen’ll be arriving with a new batch of recruits soon. We’ll slip you in with them.”

“Let me think about it,” Theon answered.

For one full day, he lay in the bed they’d provided him within the tiny room they’d stuffed him in. After sleeping on a pile of straw for three months, the measly bed was the most comfortable thing he’d ever lain on, and yet he hadn’t slept a wink. He kept thinking about how fucking unfair everything was and how he should have stayed with Ygritte. Then at least he’d have a woman for company, one who seemed to like him, even.

That fucker Ogen had been right. He was no Ironborn. A true Ironborn would not be pining away for one woman.

After a full day of moping, he got out of bed and sought out the ranger. “I think I’ve decided,” he said, “but I want to consult with the Gods first.”

“Ah.” The old ranger scratched at the back of his head. “There’s a sept in the castle and a heart tree just north of here, but I’m not sure where a man goes to pray to the Drowned God.”

“I don’t want to pray to the Drowned God,” Theon stated, knowing this was akin to admitting he was an impersonator. “I want to pray to the Old Gods.”

The old ranger looked at him oddly. “Aye,” he said at last. “I’ll escort you out, then.”

Theon had been given Ogen’s horse, and he sat astride the animal, feeling the nervous thrum of his own blood as the mighty gate rose on creaking gears. It sounded like the moaning of a giant, some ancient creature who had been here long before any human and would be here long after the last human died. The wind wailed through the tunnel, and Theon ducked his head to cover his eyes.

The old ranger led the way, unheeding of the cold. Theon swallowed thickly. This was the man he would have to outrun. He hadn’t bolted yet, though. It wasn’t too late. He could follow the ranger to the heart tree, make a show of praying to the Old Gods. He could return and join the Night’s Watch and spend the rest of his life in black, which was one of his family’s colors after all. But a different color called to him. Red, like fire. And a smile with a gap in the front teeth.

The minute the gate was lifted, Theon spurred his horse forward. The old ranger gave a startled yell, but Theon tore past and never looked back. Even when he felt an arrow bite into his shoulder, and then again into his side. He pushed the horse onwards until he reached the tree line, and then he kept going.

No one chased after him.

***

 

He rode hard for what felt like days. It was difficult to tell, because his vision was dark all the time. He rested often but slept little. He had nothing to eat but sparse emergency rations of dried meat. He couldn’t have taken the arrows out even if he could reach them, since they were the only thing keeping him from bleeding out at the moment. He only had the vaguest idea of where he was headed and thanked whatever nebulous gods there were that the ranging party’s tracks hadn’t been blown away by the wind or covered in new snow.

On the nth day, whatever it was, he reached a forest that may or may not have looked familiar. The rations had run out a long time ago. The horse was the only thing keeping him going at this point. He slid off the animal and collapsed face-first into the hard-packed snow. And he lay there, unable to get up. Unable to move, even when he heard footsteps approaching. The drawing of a bowstring.

“Ygritte?” he breathed.

“They saw you comin’ a full day out,” she said, “but I begged for the honor to deal with you m’self.”

“Flattered,” he muttered.

“So…you going to give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you?”

“Because, if you…kill me…I can’t…” He wheezed. It felt like one of the ranger’s arrows had pierced his lung. “I can’t steal you…properly.”

She sniffed. “Can’t decide if I’m going to shoot you in the head or the balls.”

He laughed. It hurt.

Then she was kneeling over him and rolling him over on his side. Her hair was the brightest thing he’d ever seen, and he reached out for it. “I was going…to join…at the Wall...” A pause for breath. “Until they told me…no women.”

She scowled, but there was no real anger behind it. “That why you came limping back lookin’ like a porcupine?”

“I may have…told them to…fuck themselves.”

She sighed and began to help him to his feet.

“Not going to shoot me?”

“No sense shooting you in the head—there’s nothing there. And it’d be a shame to shoot you in the balls. Also, I don’t want to go through the trouble of burning your body.”

“Burning my body?” Theon asked.

She was silent for a moment. “Something happened while you were gone.”

He didn’t like the ominous quality in her voice. It sent a chill through his veins that had nothing to do with the cold.

“The man you killed…he came back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided this needs an epilogue, so look for that coming in a few days. Until then, thanks for reading.


	6. Epilogue

“You haven’t really left the Night’s Watch, have you?”

Jon looked up from lacing his shoes. “There’s nothing for me at the Wall.”

He was uncomfortably aware of Theon’s presence as the other sidled up next to him. “Come on, now, Snow. You’re a terrible liar. It’s clear you have no desire to join the free folk. I could believe you deserted for another reason, though.” Greyjoy’s blue-grey eyes flicked to Ygritte, who sat between Tormund and Orell, fletching arrows. “Do you care for her, Snow?”

Jon forced his eyes away from Ygritte. “I’ve never touched your woman, Greyjoy.”

“I’m not a Greyjoy anymore,” Theon snapped, “and that’s not what I asked. Do you care for her?” He scooted even closer. “Look, I don’t give a shit about taking the Wall or any of that. When we get to the other side, I’m leaving. And taking Ygritte with me.”

“Taking her?” Jon repeated. “Where?”

“South. As south as we can go. Dorne, maybe. Or the Summer Isles. Just…away from here.” He grew very still. “I’ve _seen_ them, Jon.”

Jon was startled at the use of his name. “I’ve seen them too,” he said.

“Not the Others, Jon. The wights.” Theon was staring into some far-off place. “I won’t let that happen to her. Or worse, I won’t let that happen to me so I come back to hurt her.” He snapped back to himself, looking a bit startled, and turned back to Jon. “So I want to know, do you care for her? Will you help me get her south?”

“I…” What could he say to that? He was supposed to be playing the wildlings, not this strange boy who seemed to have not even that much allegiance. If he said no, would Theon tell the wildlings about his plan to return to Castle Black with news of their attack? The wildlings would probably take his word over Jon’s. It seemed the safest thing to appease the Greyjoy at the moment. “Yes,” he said with a resolute nod. “Of course I will.”

Theon smiled. “Glad to hear it, Jon.” Then, without warning, he snatched Longclaw and jumped to his feet. “Guess you won’t mind if I’ll be taking this for insurance.”

Jon swore and jumped up as well. “Give that back, now.”

Theon danced out of his reach as he tried to reclaim the sword. “Too slow, Jon Snow.”

Jon made another grab at it, but Theon tossed the sword and scabbard over his head, and Jon whirled to see Ygritte snatch it out of the air. She couldn’t keep away from the sounds of mischief, judging by the wicked grin on her face. “Ooh, are we playin’ keep-away from Jon Snow?”

Jon’s face burned. Theon used to do this to him at Winterfell, too. Sometimes dragging Robb in as well. He stood perfectly still, arms as his side, to show them he wasn’t going to play their childish game. “Give it back,” he repeated.

Theon and Ygritte shared impish smiles between themselves, and together they took off running from the camp. “Come get it!” Ygritte called over her shoulder, tossing the sword back to Theon, and he back to her.

Jon swore and chased after them. They rounded a rocky outcrop, and when Jon followed, he found the entrance to a cave. He paused at the mouth, peering into the darkness beyond. He did not fancy following them in there, not until he heard the clanging of metal on rock. “Seven hells!” he muttered. “What are you doing to my sword?”

He groped his way along the entrance until suddenly everything opened up into a cavern. Natural light streamed in through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a network of hot springs. Theon was sitting by one of the pools, Longclaw draped in his lap, eyes watching Jon knowingly. Ygritte was standing right there, unslinging her quiver, eyes also watching him knowingly.

“What…?” Jon glanced behind to make sure this was no ambush. No one was there. It was just the three of them. “What’s going on? What is this?”

Ygritte began sliding her furs off her shoulder, revealing her thin undershirt beneath. She was skinny and pale, but Gods was she beautiful with the light from the water rippling off her hair. “Do you want me, Jon Snow?”

Jon swallowed and looked uncertainly to Theon. This was wrong. This was some sort of trap. He was waiting to see if Jon would take the bait and then kill him if he did. “I…can’t,” he answered faintly, because that seemed like the best answer.

“What’s the matter?” Ygritte asked. “Don’t know where t’put it?”

“Guess you won’t be getting his pretty cock after all,” Theon laughed. “Too bad, I know you were looking forward to it.”

“Thought you’d be more disappointed than me,” she answered, “the way you were goin’ on about how ‘little Jon Snow’s all grown up.’”

Jon’s head reeled. They were obviously in on this…this whatever together but he still didn’t know what they wanted.

“I think maybe I’m making him nervous.” Theon set Longclaw aside and, to Jon’s start, began pulling off his own furs. “There’s no need for that look,” he said as he made quick work of his vestments. “It’s just like when we used to bathe in the hot springs at Winterfell, isn’t it?”

His skin was a shade darker than Ygrittes, but almost as smooth as hers. Jon hated himself for thinking it, but Gods, he was kind of beautiful too.

Completely bare, Theon slipped into the pool and leaned with his arms on the edge, watching. “Now you’re the only one with clothes on, Snow.”

It was warmer in here than it had any right to be. Jon had never been so agonizingly hot in his life. He’d need to remove his furs soon, if for no other reason than to keep from stifling. He reached hesitantly for his belt. “What…do you want me to do?” he asked.

Ygritte and Theon exchanged a knowing glance, and in that moment, Jon knew too. His heart pumped scorching hot blood through his veins.

“Time to prove yourself,” Theon said.

“You said some vows,” Ygritte finished, stepping out of her light undershirt. “I want you to break ‘em.”

“ _We_ want you to break them,” Theon corrected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They all moved to Dorne and had sexy sex all day every day.
> 
> The End.


End file.
